Violets
by something-unexplained
Summary: "Do you ever get the feeling that we've met before?" "I think every couple feels that way, Alexander." If only they knew; they have. In early 1900s New York City, with a faerie curse, a lost love and a city that never sleeps... Your first love stays with you forever, even in the strangest ways.
1. Prologue - Daybreak

Violets

~ Prologue ~

**Blackbird singing in the dead of night**

**Take these broken wings and learn to fly**

**- The Beatles**

'Magnus?'

'Mhmm?'

The warlock blinked and sleeply opened his eyes. Dawn light streamed softly through the silk curtains, and as they fluttered gently in the breeze, he could hear the beeps of Brooklyn rush hour traffic in the distance.

It was day.

He yawned and stretched, his long frame bunching up the rumpled duvet at his waist. He loved the early morning smells of New York more than anywhere he had lived in during his long life; the cool air on his cheeks, the sweet waft of bagels from down the block, and Alec. Alec made everything seem brighter, more exciting; when Magnus saw the world, it was like he was seeing it all over again through his boyfriend's eyes.

He turned over, muttering nonsense into the pillow. Alec was sitting up, his back to the headboard, looking pensive. Magnus loved when he caught him in moments like that, sleep-weary yet open in a way that barely anyone else saw.

'What were you saying, love? A bit early for me to be functioning,' Magnus murmured, hating to disturb the peace that surrounded the younger boy. Alec started a little and blushed.

'Sorry. Go back to sleep, it was nothing. Just me thinking aloud.'

'Tell me.' Magnus crawled across the mattress and wrapped his arms around Alec's waist. The Shadowhunter kept gazing intently at the sunrise from the loft window, but curved instinctively into the embrace, his lip tugging upwards and shoulders relaxing. Magnus knew this was Alec's way of silent communication; if you knew him well, even his slightest movements gave away what he was thinking.

Right now? Well, even if Magnus couldn't read minds, _I love you. I love you._

'Something's bothering you, I can tell. Alec.' The last part half playful, half serious, Magnus clasped both of Alec's hands and turned him towards him, dragging his eyes away from the city dawn. Alec stared at their fingers intertwined, as if they were somehow going to break or disappear. His young, wise face was creased with thought.

'Nothing,' Alec sighed, and kissed him softly. Magnus closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of Alec's raspberry shampoo, the faint whiff of coffee on his breath, the feel of his heartbeat thumping against his own.

'Nothing my sparkly ass. Alexander Gideon Lightwood, tell me what is going on and stop trying to distract me with kisses. It is not working.' Magnus sat back and crossed his arms, trying his best to look stern and failing. His lips were more than _distracting_, as well as the kicked puppy look he was getting.

'It's stupid,' Alec muttered, flopping down on his back and pulling the blankets to his chest. Magnus smiled gently and lay by his side, reaching for his hand. 'Nothing you say is ever stupid. I hate that word; it seems as humanity gets older, it makes up more negative words and nothing wonderful anymore.'

Alec chuckled, and Magnus felt the rumble against his chest. 'You are so much wiser, and more mature, and loyal in your eighteen years than I am in my eight hundred. And if something is bothering you, than it bothers me too.'

'Fine. By the Angel, you can make me do anything just by flinging some fancy words around, can't you?' Magnus shrugged playfully, and Alec rolled his eyes to the ceiling. His face softening, he pulled the warlock close to him again, and this time didn't let go.

'Do you ever get the feeling that we've met before?'

Magnus laughed quietly, affectionately running a hand through Alec's hair. 'I think every couple feels that way, Alexander. And it is a glorified cliché. I did watch The Vow with you, you know.'

Alec scowled. 'I know. There's just something I can't shake.' He snuggled closer into Magnus's waist.

'Maybe it's just lying here, with you in a New York City dawn, without Jace spoiling it by trying to throw a seraph blade at my head or Izzy telling me to move because I'm blocking her view of the mirror.' He smiled at the memories, and Magnus thought, _how can I ever love anyone after this man? How will I live?_

'And I am magnificent. It must be a good deal for you, having me all to yourself, when I could be partying away at the many Downworlder clubs.'

'At seven in the morning?'

'It's been done. The vampires tend to live it up as long as possible before they have to go back to their holes or whatever.'

Alec smiled again, but the cloud had passed back over his features. Magnus sighed gently, and locked their fingers together again.

'We're together. Right here, right now. I don't plan on leaving you,' he paused, 'well, not until I have to go get breakfast, but anyway. I love you, and you're here, and that's all I need to know, not whether we had some gay caveman affair in another life. I just want you.'

Alec blushed, and his eyes glinted slightly when he contemplated Magnus's face. His eyes were impossibly blue.

'I think your ego is the size of a small planet, and you deliberately put way too much glitter in your hair when you _know_ I love it loose, but I love you too.'

'Thank you, I guess?' Magnus mock slapped him and they laughed, voices mingling and wafting out the loft window and rising up above the daybreak and the sea.

New York was waking up. Multicoloured, spotted pansies bloomed in windowboxes, swallows flitted between high rise apartments and the sounds of a city at work blared from every house on every street.

In a small loft in Brooklyn, a warlock and his Shadowhunter slept on. There was plenty of time, plenty of places to see, and plenty of people to see them with.

The past should be left well alone. But this is where our story begins.


	2. 1 - Rhododendron

_**A/N**_

_**Thanks you so much for the kind reviews! It really encourages me to keep writing :D**_

_**Just a note; all the chapter names from here on out will be of flowers. If you want to see their relevance, have a look at some flower meanings and it should make sense!**_

_**Enjoy, and please review if you can ! ;)**_

_**something-unexpected**_

* * *

**I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones**  
**Enough to make my systems blow**  
**Welcome to the new age, to the new age**

**- Imagine Dragons, Radioactive**

The city that never slept was so far proving most accurate.

Magnus Bane grinned widely as he surveyed the club from his perch at the bar. Flapper girls in fluttering, sequinned gowns sashayed past, more often than not dragging an unsuspecting mundane behind them. Magnus rolled his eyes as one jumped about a mile in the air, his eyes goggling in shock.

This was a Downworlder club. What was he expecting, if he found a 'girl' with a tail shocking? That was one of the least adventurous warlock's marks that stalked the dancefloor.

He downed his drink, shuddering at the bitterness, and felt the rich, spicy smell and the sharp howl of the saxophone envelop him. He wasn't here for the girls, or even the boys, just to live in the crazy atmosphere that was New York City.

It was growing fast, he had heard. Londoners came back from holidays and raved about it; new trains, people from cultures almost unheard of, sights and sounds never before experienced.

Of course it would pique his interest, he was Magnus Bane; warlock extraordinaire, life, soul and sass of the party, serial womaniser (and maneater). And now he was here, and all he could seem to do was sit on a blood red lounge, observe, and drink strange beverages until he was dizzy.

"Magnus Bane. I should have known you would be here, dragging your filthy half breed germs all over my establishment. Have you _no_ manners?"

Magnus gave a deep sigh and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. "Go away, Violet. Not in the mood. And also, be careful who you're calling half breed."

There was a low, musical chuckle, and Magnus felt a pair of long, smooth fingers rest on his shoulders, before gripping them hard enough to leave a bruise. He turned in annoyance just as a tall, elegant girl slid into the booth beside him.

"What are you drinking? Please don't tell me that's it on the carpet, Magnus. Blood Sacrifice tends to stain, you know." She rolled her sleeves up gingerly and reached towards the red blotch with a grimace. Recoiling, she delicately waved a hand and the stain disappeared in a fizz of sparks. Catching Magnus looking at her, she shrugged again. "I was trying to be domestic for a minute. Shoot me."

"So, you conniving, snakelike, thieving cow, what are you doing owning a bar in New York City?" Magnus snapped his fingers and another drink appeared on the table. Violet sniffed in distaste, and the warlock deliberately took his time with the first sip. She crossed her legs, and ran her tongue over her lips thoughfully.

"Well, after that insult, I'm not that inclined to tell you anything except get out of my club… But, since you are now surrounded by dozens of faery knights hidden in the walls, I'm going to turn a blind eye." Her eyes gleamed, and Magnus scowled childishly at her. She laughed again, the sound like bells rising above the thumping sound of the music.

"Fine. I heard this was different, and you were in London so I wouldn't have to come across you and your disgustingly colourful wardrobe." Magnus downed another gulp. "I have to say, though, I missed you wit. Razor-sharp as a hammer, as usual."

"Leave me be," Magnus groaned, and put his head in his hands. "I surrender. Let me finish whatever this thing is, don't shoot me, and I'll go. I'm drunk and you're irritating me."

Violet pursed her perfectly full lips and pouted. "You aren't nearly as fun as normal, old friend. Having a dry run?"

Magnus looked at her pointedly from his vantage point on the table. "I know, you've told me before, you don't have herpes," she retorted. Magnus sat up, straightening the gold threads on his waistcoat. He was leaving.

"I'm going, Violet. Don't try and keep me here just because you want me to see your 'games.' I know how your parties get after dark."

Violet's eyes had darkened to a glowing red, and her expression was vaguely primal. "Oh Magnus. Always such the buzzkill."

"You're not lying to me, but I know what you're doing." Magnus reached out to tuck a lock of her dark hair behind her pointed ear. Violet regarded him curiously, her lips curved into a half smile.

"You surely have duties. All day, every day, all year round. You don't have the time or luxury to come to New York City because it's 'different,' and you certainly wouldn't do it just to avoid me. What's your game?"

Her face had frosted over while he spoke, and was now as hard as stone. If he had not been who he was, Magnus would have run for the hills. For now, he sat back in the booth and waited.

"Meliorn. Gaspar." Two fey knights materialized out of the shadows to flank her, and Magnus regarded them with cool detachment. Clad in night-black armour and their icily beautiful faces unmoving, they seemed to glow with an unnatural light that only faeries possessed. Violet crossed her arms and leaned back, her body language oozing danger and aggression. Her eyes had lightened again, but now to a rich red that spoke of anger and blood.

The dance hall around them froze. Magnus opened his mouth as if to say something, then decided against it. Time seemed to move as if underwater, and he could see the ripple of the space rift that Violet had distorted to place them in this bubble. He wasn't afraid of her; maybe once, but she held no power over him now.

"Listen to me, _Magnus Bane_," she hissed, leaning close enough that Magnus could feel her sharp nails cut his cheek where she clutched it. The warlock pushed her off, fury rising in his veins. "Get off me, you ..."

Violet narrowed her eyes, and Magnus could see the cogs working furiously behind the mirror of beauty that surrounded her. He stood up straight, and looked at her dead on. She leaned in again, her skin shifting colours and images until he could barely see straight.

Dragging a sharp nail up his throat, Magnus could feel blood running down his shirt collar. She spoke in a low voice, her words imbued with an ancient power that only her kind possessed. The faeries beside her shifted on their feet uncomfortably, and Magnus could feel the space-time rift shudder under the impact of her magic. No Book of the White had taught her any gifts, that was certain.

"Listen to me very closely, warlock. Apart from it being _none of your bloody business_," she purred, "there is something in New York I want. And believe me, I will get it. It has been hidden from me for thousands of years, and I want it back. You are here now, and from much experience I know you won't let it rest, but I am warning you; do not _touch_ me, interfere, or try and cause _any _kind of trouble. Have I explained enough?"

She flicked a blood soaked nail in Magnus's face, and he flinched when he felt it splatter his cheekbone. He opened one eye, and she smiled catlike at him.

"Great. I do hope you're enjoying the bar," she stood and twirled, her raven locks shimmering under the neon lights. "Meliorn, Gaspar, come with me." She fluttered a hand, and the bubble popped, leaving a hall full of dancing couples and the music once again twining around the roof. Magnus clenched his jaw and Violet paused, mid-step. Turrning slowly around, she gasped, and laughed. Magnus jumped, and various patrons looked curiously at their little party. The music had slowed, and now it played a seductive tango.

Violet's crazy laugh echoed around all corners of the room, and when it once sounded like clear bells on a bright day, it now was a deep cackle, writhing with images of dying men, thorns piercing their chests, and a dark forest on a winter's night. Magnus tasted blood.

"Oh, this is priceless!" Violet giggled again, predatorily. "It seems you may have a good time in New York after all, Magnus Bane."

Without a sound, she turned, her scarlet dress swishing, and melted into the shadows with her guard. All Magnus could see was the glint of the faery spears against the air.

Before he even had time to think about Violet and her crazy schemes, another hand tapped him on the shoulder, more gently this time. He whirled around, ready to bite.

"Violet, get away from me or I swear…"

It wasn't Violet. Extinguishing the blue flames he had ready to fire in his palm, he wearily gazed at the new arrival. "What do you want?"

A young man in Shadowhunter gear drew a seraph blade warily, and held it out in front of the warlock. Magnus raised his eyebrows, raising his hands in submission.

"Are you Magnus Bane?"

The Nephilim's voice was tight, but Magnus could feel the hatred and bottled fear leak through the velvety tones. He should have known; all Shadowhunters did was distrust Downworlders of any kind.

"The one and only." The Shadowhunter didn't lower his blade, but his face loosened in apparent relief.

"Good. The New York Institute requires your help."

Magnus barked a laugh, and got up to leave, pushing his glass to the end of the table where it dropped off. Smashing on the floor into shards of brilliant glass, a faery waitress appeared out of nowhere. Magnus knew that it was his signal to her that he was going. "You must be joking. Why would I help the Clave?"

"Because we have leads on the Book of the White."

Magnus turned slowly, curiosity overriding his suspicion. "Why should I trust you? What makes me believe that you don't want it for yourself and will double-cross me the minute you get your hands on it?"

The Shadowhunter shrugged, sheathing his blade. "I suppose it all depends on how much you want it, then."

Magnus considered, then lit up a small flame on his hand. "I'm well armed. I'll take my chances. Lead me to it."

The young man smiled like a cat, satisfied. As they left, the spicy smell and heavy air receding to dim streetlamps and the soft, cool scent of recent rainfall, Magnus felt a hand touch his cheek, then dissipate into the night.

He knew the hand, and he knew the voice that followed.

_"This is the new age, Magnus Bane. Watch your back."_

With a shiver, and without knowing where they were going, he led the Shadowhunter out.

Magnus Bane never followed.


	3. 2 - Bellflower

_**A/N**_

_**Thanks again for all the great reviews, and I hope you like the story! Constructive criticism is so welcome, so fire away :D I forgot to add a disclaimer, so here we go:**_

_**I do not own anything relating to the Mortal Instruments or Cassie Clare's work. Anything you recognise is hers; but all OCs belong to me!**_

_**something-unexplained**_

* * *

**Run, run, run away**

**Buy yourself another day**

**A cold wind's whispering **

**Secrets in your ear**

**So low only you can hear**

- **Kingdom Come, The Civil Wars**

His name was not Alec Lightwood anymore.

He guessed so. The Midwinters hadn't mentioned his family since he had arrived here, and referred to him as Alexander only. Alec hadn't the courage or energy to correct them.

His first impression of the New York Institute was that it was _cold_. Ancient, peeling and mildewed portraits of Shadowhunters dead and gone hung crookedly on every corner, and he could see his breath frozen in the air every time he exhaled. The floorboards were rotting and almost fallen through to the cellar below, and he was pretty sure there was a few hallways and wards blocked off.

It was like a sick, dying building.

He felt the same way about the Midwinters. For a Shadowhunter family who had run the New York Institute since it was first founded, their sense of pride and drive had seemed to melt away into a deep pool of disinterest. They stalked the decaying halls of the church like vultures, screeched at their (many) servants, drank expensive spirits and as far as Alec could tell, never hunted.

The only part of the Institute he actually liked was the garden. Far under the shadow of the back of the building was a tiny plot that was used to grow medicinal plants and roots way back when. All but forgotten, it hid behind the overgrown tree branches and wild bushes in a small little clearing of magic.

Alec had never experienced anything like it. The Shadowhunters, before the Accords and even after, had ancient plants and flowers that could kill, maim and wipe memory. And all of this was left to grow unchecked, winding perilously and richly colourful through the plain ochre of the strangled trees up to the Manhattan skyline. They were the only things alive back there; they had smothered every ordinary plant with their poisonous grip.

And there he was, playing with fire, every morning and night. Alec picked his way through snapping teeth and long, tickling wild grass to reach the end of the Institute boundary. Pushing aside a yellowing, loose shrub, he placed his basket down and put his hands on his slim hips with a sigh at what he saw.

This would take some work.

Since last night, the faerie snapdragons had physically _eaten_ half of the sprouting midnight flowers, and he was left with a clump of mangled blue petals and a few fluttering from sharp teeth.

The mandrake had wound its way around another oak, its rich red vines spreading like pulsating veins around the trunk, which was already beginning to go tan in colour. Alec gave it a month before the branches followed, and then the leaves would fall. With a huff of exertion, he grasped the ends of the mandrake and began to pull it away from the tree, being careful the roots stayed put. The ruby feelers started to wind around his arms, and he smacked them away with a snarl. Grabbing his knife and swiftly chopping off the culprit creepers, he threw the plant down. A shrill whine seemed to seep through the earth, and Alec knew it was from the parent root.

This place was full of a strange kind of danger.

Alec got drunk on it.

He smiled to himself, smelling the sweet aromas of the flytraps and the smoke from the docks, and began to move around the little garden.

He reached his favourite first, the relatively harmless midnight flowers. They bloomed only at midnight, and he thought they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Rich blue in colour, with a creamy, gold centre and anthers like glittering shards of glass, they were used in medicine and also for lovers; they bloomed in the presence of soulmates. Alec gently plucked a petal with a quiet "sorry." He always apologised for some reason when touching them; they seemed so unassuming, and they always seemed to speak to him in some way. He sometimes got a vision he couldn't shake when he was around their flowers; of a blond boy and a red haired girl. His imagination got the better of him.

He stepped gingerly through the long, overgrown weeds and reached the every end of the plot. Here there was a small gap in the hedge, a portal beyond the mystical world of the Clave to the bustle of New York beyond. If he looked hard enough, Alec could see the harbour, and dreamed of sunlight and dancing and a different world. And here was his favourite flower planted.

Officially, it was a long Latin name that Alec couldn't pronounce, but to him and those who knew of it, it went by the Warlock's Violet. Shadowhunters tried to use it to kill warlocks and their species, but once they realised it didn't work, they pretty much abandoned it. Having heard the legend, Alec was fascinated, and with much work and research, he had found out that it had a different purpose.

The myth that it killed warlocks was partly true. It wiped their memory of a certain specific event, which was usually the first time they realised they had magic. Therefore, they went through the rest of their lives unknowing of the power they held; immortality still lasted, and that usually involved the police, accusations of witchcraft and hanging.

Alec loved them. Carefully bending the deep forest green shoots towards the faint light from the hole in the hedge, he admired the faint beads of gold that shone like dewdrops on the petals. They were delicate, but Alec knew the dangers and stepped back. He felt a small flicker of sunlight on his cheeks, and sighed deeply. Time to go back into the morgue.

"Alexander!"

He grinned ruefully at himself and half-ran, half-stumbled through the winding undergrowth to the looming Institute. Time to face the Midwinters.

* * *

Cornelius and Lissanda Midwinter stood in the foyer when Alec stumbled through, breathless, hair flopping over his face. They regarded him coolly. He immediately straightened up, feeling the contrast to their straight, stately appearance, and pushed the basket discreetly behind a pillar with his toe.

It had been two weeks, seven hours and fifty six minutes since his family had died. He hadn't even been at home when it had happened. He had been out on a hunt; the golden boy, invincible, fighting demons and earning a reputation around London for his skills. Alec Lightwood; the quiet one, but every day piercing a demon's heart with his arrows.

He should have been ready for it. He should have known, but then again, how could he? It had been a freak accident, a breach in their house's defences, and a horde of Molochs descending on his family. Everyone had died. His mother, father, brothers and his grandparents Gideon and Sophie, savaged to death and their home scorched for all to see.

Alec came back later that day, and all he could see were the Downworlders. Hidden in corners, behind trees, inside windows, they laughed and laughed until tears flooded down their faces. They despised the Nephilim, and they cackled as they burned. He couldn't breathe, his mind was in chaos, and he notched his arrows in utter despair and shot. He fired at the faces in the dark like a madman until he was seized by the Clave. Their screams echoed into London's fog.

Thirty Downworlders died that day, under the deadly rain. Alec's split iron, silver and holy water tipped arrows beat them down like they were nothing. He had broken the Accords, and by all rights he should have been put to death immediately.

But, since he was a minor, and his parents were dead, and he was clearly out of his mind, they shipped him to New York to be put under the care of the Midwinters. Here he was, and he hadn't fought since.

"Alexander." He was broken out of his reverie by Lissanda's grating speech. She grabbed his coat, and flicking dirt off the side, she swiveled him to face them. He stared blanky at them.

"Listen to us. Alexander!" He winced. "What?"

"You need to prepare your room. Demetri is bringing home a guest, and he needs somewhere to stay. So, you are moving to the cell."

He frowned, his eyebrows knotted. "Why the cell? Couldn't I just go to the guest bedroom? Actually, why can't the _guest_ go to the guest bedroom?"

Cornelius shot Lissanda a look under his huge, feathery eyebrows. His aunt's eyes were narrowed, sharp as a hawk, and Alec didn't have time to decide whether he'd gone too far before she shook her head and clamped another hand around his arm. "You're coming with us."

Alec let himself be dragged off. Raziel help him if he had to do the dishes one more time.

* * *

Magnus was curious, and he was gradually getting on the Shadowhunter's nerves.

"So, what is this job you want me to do?" he chirruped, striding ahead even though he had no idea where he was going. The Shadowhunter ignored him, his seraph blade still out and digging into the warlock's back. Magnus wiggled his eyebrows and muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" It was the first the Nephilim had spoken since the beginning of the walk. Magnus perked up. "Nothing of interest. What's your name, anyway? I feel like we have become comrades on this trip."

"We've been walking for five minutes."

"Little things. So?"

The Shadowhunter sighed and prodded him ahead again. "Demetri Midwinter. Of the New York Institute."

Magnus quirked an eyebrow again. "Midwinters? Are you new?"

Demetri shrugged. "You're old. Time is different for you. For us, yes, I suppose we are."

They walked on in silence, and Magnus breathed in the evening air with a smile. He loved the streets of New York at night, even when being pushed along by an antisocial Shadowhunter with an utterly useless blade. He tried again.

"I think I need to know what this job is entails. Just to prepare myself." He half-turned to prove his point but was pushed back again. "I can't say. I'm not comfortable with it, but I have my orders, and you Downworlders don't have a conscience so we called you."

Magnus prickled, and blue sparks jumped across his skin. "You'd better watch what you say, pup. If you're right, then I should have no problem killing _you_."

Demetri squared up and locked his jaw. "Then you won't get the Book, will you?"

Magnus rolled his eyes, and with another prod in the back, they strode faster. Magnus recognized Manhattan properly now, and he could see the harbour in the distance. Another long walk to go.

* * *

Alec's head was spinning, and he groggily looked up. He was in the cell, candles lighting the outside, and the cold air tickling his skin. He tasted blood on his tongue.

He was bound. Testing his arms, he realised he was tied to a chair. Struggling, he yelled out in pain as he moved.

Bastards. They had broken his legs.

Tears running down in pain, he tried to sit up with his arms and failed. Slumping down in the chair, his head thumping, he knew what had happened.

Terror overwhelmed him. He began to pray, but he didn't know who to.

* * *

Demetri buckled to questioning after an hour and a half. "All right, all right! If I tell you, then shut up!"

Magnus looked curiously at him. "Fine."

"It's not my choice, and I didn't order it. But, it's an assassination. We want you to kill, so we don't get blood on our hands."

Magnus's eyes were wide in shock. "There is no way. I am not doing this, do you understand? My reputation will be shredded. I could be arrested for breaking the Accords!"

"You seem to have done worse in the past. And, we hear there is nothing you wouldn't do for the Book."

* * *

The cell door opened. Alec could feel his frantic breathing. He cried out hoarsely and saw white, pain overpowering his whole body.

He was going to die.


	4. 3 - Eglantine Rose

_**A/N : Thanks for all the lovely comments, please R&R!**_

_**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise here from the Mortal Instruments or Cassie Clare's work is mine. **_

_**something - unexplained**_

* * *

**And I want you to see**

**Every day I wear my heart on my sleeve**

**- Olly Murs, Heart On My Sleeve**

Once upon a time, there was a baby boy.

With dark hair and the clearest, palest blue eyes, his beginning was a blinding flash in the bleakest period of Shadowhunter history.

A storm raged relentlessly outside the Institute when he was born, lightning forking and striking the spire of the church so much that it shook to its very foundations. While his father whistled, surprised, and the servants scattered, his mother's eyes were deep and full of terror.

It was a difficult birth. Though technically against the Law, mundane midwives were called for the first time to the hallowed halls of the Institute, turning everything into a flurry of confusion, barked orders and a chill of fear. This never happened.

The baby's mother was sweating heavily, and her face was red and veined as she gritted her teeth in agony. Her husband held her hand loosely, concern written into the dips and lines riding his forehead and mouth. A cool cloth was pressed to her forehead, but she barely felt it, caught up in the daze of pain and sheer terror. In her head, the storm was speaking to her, and it had the voice of the Seelie Queen.

"Get her away from me! She'll never get him!" His mother's voice ripped through the low chaos of the room and her husband jumped in shock. "My love, can you hear me?" They were the first words she had spoken since the beginning of labour. "Love?" He touched her shoulders gently and glanced at the midwife. She was grim, her face grey from overwork and seeing too much.

"I don't know what will happen, and I'm so sorry. Right now, the child is the priority. If it is born safely, then your wife may easily live."

He nodded numbly, stroking her hair with a tenderness that was rarely seen from him. She mumbled incoherently, her eyes opening and closing frantically, until all he could see was the vacant flash of her deep brown eyes. She was losing grip, and he couldn't stop it.

She felt herself fall, then stumble and get up again. She felt her husband's hand on hers, though at that point she had no idea who it was and who was around her. She felt the cutting, splitting, tearing raw pain and saw the blood and the rip of lightning. She felt the thunder's roar to her very bones.

Through the haze, she saw a face. A woman's face, ethereally beautiful and eerie in the dim light of the room. She smiled. Her mother, come to take her to the angels. She reached out, then looked properly and blanched. Her scream echoed around the church, and lightning hit the spire.

"Darling, hold on." Her husband was pale and shaking, clutching onto her hand like it would break away from him. The midwife shook her head sadly. She had seen so many men unable to let go of their loved ones, unable to accept the fact that they mightn't make it through.

The baby was crowning. The midwives and servants all rushed like frightened, determined birds, handing bowls of water and towels and opium flowers. His mother howled, and more bolts rained down on the Institute until her husband was momentarily blinded. He dropped her hand and when he reached for it again, panicked, it was cold.

She could see the woman's face clearer now, and it certainly was not her mother. She was beautifully cool, with a cut glass features and dark eyes that held secrets so old that the baby's mother couldn't even begin to imagine. Her lips were blood red, and when she leaned closer and smiled, the woman shivered and felt a chill run down her spine.

"You know why I'm here." It was a statement, and the baby's mother gasped in pain and nodded. "Take me… not him. Please!"

The woman rolled her eyes and stood back, tapping a nail on her elbow. "You're not really thinking straight right now, Nephilim. Your labour is excruciating, I made sure of that. So, I am prepared to offer you a deal. Again. This time, you will say yes, or you both will die."

The baby's mother heaved a breath and let out, "Yes! Whatever you want! Just let it be over!"

"I see interesting things in your son's future. Very interesting things indeed, and I want to watch how they play out. I will save your lives." The mother sighed a breath, and her eyes rolled back in her head. "At a price."

"What?" The baby's mother was losing her focus, and her inhalations were becoming weaker. "If your son's life is to be in any way worth watching for me, I want to make it that little bit spicier. I will place a curse, anything I want, that cannot be undone by anything you simple mortals can create, on his soul. You will accept whatever I choose to inflict, without interruption or conflict."

"Fine! Just save him!" The baby's mother fell back, and her last breath slipped her lips. She was silent.

The woman gazed with intrigue at her white face, and gently drifted her long fingers on the mother's forehead. She began to huff as her lungs filled. Rosy colour was restored to her face, and blood stiffly resumed running in her veins.

"She's alive!"

"So is the child. It's a miracle. By the Angel!"

The baby's mother laughed heavily, panting and grasping her son in her arms, watching his beautiful blue eyes blink for the first time. But, in the window, she could see a shadow of a woman's face, cold and waiting.

_You made a promise. _

* * *

The author of this tale would like to say that the boy's childhood was full of joy, but the facts are crisp and clear.

It began as any other Shadowhunter child's would; he toddled around the Institute on unsteady legs, threw seraph blades at aged three, learned the Law by heart at aged six.

It was then that things started changing.

He was always a quiet boy. He hid behind his long unruly fringe, shading his eyes from anything remotely intimidating, and silently went about at becoming a fearsome warrior. And so he became; his first kill was at aged five, a Sharax demon that slipped past the wards of the Institute.

He became distant from his family. At first, he thought they were going through something difficult, or anything his young mind could comprehend. He followed them around a lot more, started to be more attention-seeking, broke things on purpose and even stabbed his own hand with a blade.

They just noticed him less and less, as if he was a random visitor and not their son. At dinner, they had conversations without him. They didn't bring him on visits to relatives unless he jumped in the carriage himself, and when he did come, his extended family acted as if he didn't even exist. He became almost a living ghost, known only by name and prowess.

He was hired many times, by many Institutes around the globe. His reputation and name remained intact, and he killed so many demons he was regarded as the fiercest Shadowhunter the world had ever seen. He was relentless, ruthless and unfeeling. Anyone who paid attention to him for more than five minutes, though, soon forgot about him and moved on. He lived in his own bubble, always alone, and always wondering why. Was it him? Was he meant to be this way?

He struggled so hard, and when a terrible burning occurred in the London Institute, he dared to hope. He may be noticed. He may finally find someone, some people.

He was still in the shadows. And as he struggled against the silence, he was watched by a faerie with a cut-glass face.

* * *

"What a lovely story." Violet smiled, her sharp canines glinting, and glanced from her armchair to her guards. "I love that one. I'm just so glad somebody got to write it down; it tickles me _every single time_." She leaned back in the fluffy cushions and yawned, feeling the warmth of the fire caress her face. Meliorn and Gaspar looked at each other apprehensively, nodding in unison, "Quite lovely, my Lady."

"Yes." Violet stretched, her long, lean figure sliding up the back of the couch, and stood up. "We need to get moving. The Clave, the Angel bless them, have no idea what I'm planning and I intend to keep them that oblivious." At her guards' careful indifference, she threw her arms gracefully in the air in exasperation.

"Oh my God, I don't see why what I'm trying to do is so terrible!" They didn't respond, but Violet was quite adept at reading faery minds, and could see their feelings written all the way across their faces. "Yes, yes, you think it is abominable to want to kill a Downworlder. I don't care, they're all the same to me. Why is it that you all believe Downworlders have to 'team up' against the Nephilim? Tell me! It's not like half of us are enemies or anything!" Her eyes blazed, and the fey took a quick step back, their spears held tightly at their sides.

"All I want is that flower, and then I have all the ammunition I need to get rid of the warlock. Then I can be free, you all can be free or whatever, and I can go back to my normal duties without deviating and having to spend time in this horrible city with these horrible people!"

She was spitting with rage, and sparks fizzed from her fingertips and hair. A bolt of lightning forked towards the ground outside the townhouse, and her guards could feel a rush of air blow in which indicated a window or five had smashed.

"Yes, my Lady."

"Good." Violet's taut features relaxed, and the thunder was reduced to a low rumble. "Now get out of my sight. More research is needed. Go!"

Meliorn and Gaspar left silently, leaving Violet alone. Turning to the window, her face crumpled.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, freezing like icicles before falling and smashing on the pinewood floor. She sobbed uncontrollably, turning her face to the earth.

"Mama, I'm not ready." A faint _whish_ of leaves and a whisper of a breeze answered her from outside the broken pane. "I know you're speaking to me. I know what you're trying to say. And I am trying too, it has just been so difficult… I'm young, Mama. You were too young to go. And now I don't know what to do."

A night owl called clearly in the moonlight, and Violet's pretty features were soothed into a soft frown, tearstains limp on her face. Nature calmed her, and she knew what she had to do.

"Mama, I will find that flower and avenge you. You can count on it."

Turning her back, she strode to the door and realising it had blown off its hinges, snarled and threw it through another window, hearing the blistering crack break through her ears.

"Can _anybody_ clean up after themselves here?"

From the rest of the brownstone, she could smell the scent of respect, annoyance, and fear. Fear was powerful. Fear was dangerous.

She was fear.

And yet she was afraid.


	5. 4 - Sweetpea

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay guys !**_

* * *

**Two separate divided silences,**  
**Which, brought together, would find loving voice.**

**- 'Severed Selves,' Dante Gabriel Rossetti**

Magnus and Demetri reached the Institute at dawn. The warlock had always hated mornings; there was just something about the light laying everything bare in the open, without the cloak of darkness, which irked him and made him uneasy. Demetri also seemed to be wary of the early sunlight; he shaded his face, still frozen into a condescending mask of arrogance, and none too gently pushed Magnus along the street.

New York was waking up. Along the sleepy street that lay alongside the church that was the home of the Nephilim, market vendors were setting out their wares, and the pair caught a scent of roses and soft clay. Magnus smiled a little, and traced a finger along a potter's bowl, zigzags in tribal red and azure indicating its foreign origin.

"Ow!" A seraph blade jabbed him sharply between his shoulder blades and he clenched his fists. "Would you stop?!" Demetri regarded him lazily, his eyebrows raised. "No." Magnus felt the urge to slap him.

"Just bring me to the Midwinters. Oh wait; they're your parents, right? I bet you're the spoiled one in that family, you little brat." Demetri poked the blade close to his eye and Magnus cackled, missing the clouded look that passed his face.

"We're here." Demetri sheathed his blade and strode in front of Magnus, peering thoughtfully at the building whilst chewing his lip. Studying him, Magnus though absently that he looked like a warrior; muscular and built, with long, floppy dark hair, he looked like a pissed off Adonis with a couple of swords and a face that never broke a smile. He wondered why.

"My parents have brought down the wards for you for a couple of hours, so you should be fine." The Shadowhunter walked up to the door and with a definite flick of his wrist, watched the door creak open. "Welcome to the Institute, Magnus Bane."

* * *

Magnus's first impressions were that it was big. Huge, actually, though most of it seemed pretty run down and mildewed. He shivered at the coldness, and wondered idly if it was below zero in here. Demetri in any case didn't seem bothered, and walked purposefully ahead, pausing in the hallway. "Mother? Father?"

They seemed to materialize on the balcony above, and Magnus jumped, sparks rising to his fingertips. Lissanda and Cornelius Midwinter seemed to radiate coolness and a cracking, crumbling aristocracy that even he knew himself was vanishing. Their faces and hands were as pale and flaky as chalk, wrinkles lined their cheeks and the hollows in their temples and their stiff, buttoned attire only highlighted the fact that they were basically walking corpses. Magnus visibly flinched as they descended the staircase. The closer they came, the more he saw and heard; clouded, milky eyes, the creak and snap of old bones and the sound of difficult, clogged breathing. No wonder they needed someone for an assassination; they were so ancient and incapable they couldn't do it themselves. He wondered why they were even in charge of the Institute anymore.

"Your name is Magnus Bane?" He nodded warily, and let a few blue flames fall to the floor. This was his challenge to them. You can't trick me, or fool me, or blackmail me. I am centuries older than you ever will be.

They visibly flinched, and Magnus extinguished the flame, satisfied. They're easy to break, and they won't put up a fight. Just get the job done, get the Book and get out of there. Shadowhunters made him uncomfortable.

"Mother, Father, he's agreed to do the job." The Midwinters ignored Demetri as if he hadn't spoken, passing by him in a swish of crinkling crinoline. Magnus would have thought that was strange, and would have noticed Demetri's face fall back into his regular frown, but he was too busy eyeing up the runners of the Institute. They looked him up and down in unison, and Lissanda Midwinter extended a gloved hand, wincing a little.

"Come with us. This job will not be a struggle for you."

Magnus shrugged. Frankly, when it came to the Book he would do anything, but h appreciated the thought. They fell away through a tiny servant's door, and he felt like he was descending into Hell.

* * *

Alec started a little and tried to open a bruised, swollen eye when he heard the oak door of the cells creak. "If you're here to kill me," he croaked, "can I please be buried with my parents?" His voice cracked, and he repeated. "_Please._ I know you won't listen, and I'll probably end up in a dump or a fire," he said shakily, and felt tears running down his split, dry face, "but I can't fight anymore. I want to be with my family. Tell the Clave I died in a terrible accident if you want, but one last wish." He closed his eyes in defeat, and realised there hadn't been a word spoken since he had begun.

A voice rang out, a voice Alec had never heard before in his life. It was beautiful and rich, low and musical, and sounded like pure magic. "Who are you?"

"Who are _you_?" Alec tried in vain to open an eye to see his companion, and failed. He arms were floppy by his side, and he felt like all energy had drained from his body. "Are you here to kill me?"

The voice hesitated, and Alec knew the answer before he had even spoken. "Yes."

Alec sighed in almost relief, and as he slid to the floor, he heard the rustle of the stranger's clothes as he leapt up. Was he shocked? Surely an assassin wouldn't be so considerate.

"You're dying." It wasn't a question, and the stranger sounded a little sad, but clouded with concern. Alec realised he must look like a corpse already, bloody and beaten and lifeless. He felt the rattle of a faint breath in his lungs. "You mightn't have to kill me after all. I might just go on my own." He felt the bitterness in his faint rasp and stretched out an arm, as if to feel the earth outside his cell.

"Goodbye. I never even knew your name." His whisper was thin.

He felt voices calling him and blacked out.

Magnus was expecting many different types of prisoner to execute. A rogue werewolf or vampire. A demon. Maybe even a Shadowhunter who had severely broken the Law, defiant and proud to death.

What he certainly was not expecting was a young man, bruised and beaten within an inch of his life, who asked, strong though he was pretty much dead, to be buried with his family.

He couldn't do it.

When the boy closed his shining azure eyes and slipped to the floor with a hard thump, Magnus felt from his position by the door that he was dying. He could have left him there, collected the Book, saved himself some energy, but just seeing the crumpled figure collapsed on the ground made him angry and emotional in ways he hadn't in years.

What was wrong with him? His heart was twisting itself in knots and he felt light headed. How dare someone beat and abuse someone young, defenceless, then try to kill them off? Red clouded his vision, and sparks leapt through his hair and across his clothes, frantically sputtering in violent shades of navy and black.

He kneeled by the cage, and noticed the boy's hand had drifted from his motionless form and a few fingertips rested just outside the iron bars, seeming to feel for the earth trapped beneath the frozen concrete. Magnus extended his long, elegant hand and felt power rush up his arm, veins pulsating with an ethereal glow that made the young Shadowhunter's pale digits seem ghostly in comparison.

Without thinking, Magnus grasped the boy's hand in his. He would be damned if the Nephilim got away with another heartless death on his watch. It had absolutely nothing to do with the young man's lips, or his captivating blue eyes, which were currently hidden under sickly, purpling lids.

Heat and light seeped from through his fingers to the boy's, lighting their arms in a linked stream of molten vitality running through their veins. Magnus felt sweat beads form on his forehead and grunted, pushing all his healing energy into the connection, fighting to keep the boy's weak pulse going, pumping the golden blood around his body as he regained life. A faint blush crept onto his ashen cheeks, and he let out a guttering breath, gasping for air.

Magnus let the last of his power trickle into the boy's veins and stood quickly and silently. The Shadowhunter moved his head groggily on the ground, a wing of raven hair flopping and sticking to his damp forehead. Without thinking, the warlock leant forward and moved it away, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin, so pale and thin.

The boy was waking. Smiling softly, though he had no idea why, he turned swiftly to leave.

When Alec woke, there was nothing to be found except a few stray sparks and a whisper of a quiet voice. _You will live._

He had been saved.

* * *

The Midwinters jumped back from the cellar door as a blur of glitter swept past them into the foyer. Sparks; no, flames, leapt from his palms, and his cat slitted eyes burned with a terrifying intensity that made the Nephilim shrink in fear.

"What was _that_?" A gale grew around them. Plates and furniture rattled treacherously, and carpets and tapestries ruffled. A few mirrors cracked, and Demetri almost smiled from his perch by the doorway, arms crossed in amusement.

"You didn't kill the prisoner?" Cornelius Midwinter drew himself up to his full height of 5 foot 6 and drew his wife behind him. "How much do you want this Book, half-breed? Your kind disgusts me, thinking you can get away with stealing and threats," he snarled. As soon as the words had left his mouth, flames roared from the warlock's hands and incinerated a vase of flowers on the mantelpiece. The pottery cracked and shattered, and the delicate carnations disintegrated into black ash that blew softly to the floor.

"Don't you dare, Nephilim, or your Institute will also go up in flames," Magnus hissed. Cornelius kept up his snarl, but visibly paled. The amount of rotting wood in the building would cause an inferno if one of the warlock's elegantly manicured hands grazed over any surface.

"And I'll repeat my question. What on God's earth was _that_?" Magnus was quivering with rage, his whole body tense with coiled energy. Cornelius sneered. "You have no right to speak His name, half-breed. We do what we want with our own. It is not your business to interfere; if you want out of the deal, then leave. We don't need you."

Magnus bristled. He stalked up to the Midwinters, deliberately leaning in uncomfortably close to Cornelius, and looked deeply into his eyes.

"I know what I saw. I don't know who that boy is, or what he's done. But I know what you have done to him."

He paused, and turned his back to them. "I'm leaving now. I will be back for the Book, and none of your defences will be able to stop me. That is a warning, but listen carefully."

He drifted his fingers over a rich, dusty tapestry, and heard Lissanda's sharp intake of breath. He let the blue flames burn for a few uncomfortable seconds. The Midwinters were silent, though Magnus knew they were close to running. How foolish.

Extinguishing the fire, he turned again to them. Lissanda's face was full of a shallow kind of terror; her glazed eyes were fearful, and her head flitted from side to side nervously. She was looking for escape routes, and her hand was grasped tightly in her husband's. Cornelius smirked right into the warlock's eyes, but behind that Magnus knew he too was scared. This was beyond anything he had done in his life; beyond his comprehension.

"Either you take care of that boy, or I will tell the Clave you hired a Downworlder to kill one of your own."

Lissanda gasped, and clamped her hand over her mouth. "Cornelius!..." Cornelius shushed her, his eyes locked into Magnus's. "He's bluffing. If you go to the Clave, they will kill you first."

"That is your gamble to make. Take it or leave it, Nephilim. Though I can't understand why you would want to kill him so badly."

Cornelius looked at his wife's wide eyes and quivering hands, and Magnus's fingers, still ignited. Finally, he looked down. He was an old man.

"Fine. But, mark my words, Downworlder, this isn't over. We aren't the only ones in the Institute; we have others, younger, fitter, who will take you down, like…" Cornelius stopped, his eyebrows furrowed, as if trying to remember a long lost name. Magnus raised his eyebrows in surprise, and glanced towards Demetri's direction by the door. The boy was gone.

"I'll hold you to that, Shadowhunters. I will be back, and if it is not as you say, you will not have an Institute to run."

Leaving the Midwinters alone and broken in the foyer, he strode towards the huge oak door that was the entrance to the church. He felt a rustle of air from the corridor, and before he knew it, Demetri had swept in, silent and shadowed.

"What do you want?" Magnus felt uncomfortable at the boy's presence; partly covered in shadow, he stood in the corner of the hall like a ghost, crossed arms and leaning against the cool stone. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and Magnus tensed.

"Thank you." His voice was hollow and cool, but Magnus could feel it tremble. He wondered.

"Why? As far as I could tell, you didn't do anything to stop it. You don't do much, actually."

Demetri flinched visibly, as if the warlock had hit a nerve. He huffed a slow, low breath, and spoke quietly, evenly.

"In case you haven't seen it in practice, warlock, which you have, nobody notices me around here. I learn to observe. While you were downstairs, I was there too. I saw you with Alec, and I am saying thank you. He is the only good thing here, and he deserves to live."

Magnus's eyes flickered. "His name is Alec? Who is he?"

Demetri quirked a small smile from the gloom. "I think that is for you to find out, Magnus Bane. There is a garden out behind the Institute. Try every day, from sunset." With that, he soundlessly disappeared into the night.

Magnus smiled a little. Humming, he left the strange Institute and its strange inhabitants to the early song of the lark. Morning was breaking, and the city was bathed in a deep golden glow.

Maybe New York was looking up.


End file.
